


White is all around

by procrastination_queen



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:51:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastination_queen/pseuds/procrastination_queen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock finally understands what John felt when he left, and decides to do what he thinks is best for them both.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White is all around

**Author's Note:**

  * For [angee](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=angee).



At first, white was all he saw around him. White snow falling from the sky, covering the roads, the pavement and everything else. White lights slightly blinding his sensitive eyes. It seemed as if the world had turned white, as the shirt he was wearing. But then, he noticed some red in between the whiteness.  It was not a bright shade of red, it was darker. It was more like _blood._ And then white again, but it was not an attractive shade of white. It was more like the _pallor of death in a face._

 

* * *

 

His mind went blank. He could not think of a proper answer for each question he was being asked at the moment. All he could think of was that loathing shade of white he had seen just a few minutes ago. He was not sure if he could ever be able to take away that image from his mind. He had seen many before, but none was as mesmerizing as this one. Being haunted by the sight of a badly injured body was something he was not used to. “Shocked” is an adjective used to describe those who can be easily impressed, and he was definitely not one of them. But this was not the case. He was shocked, disturbed, scared to death. He felt so dizzy and weak he thought he could lose his balance if he dared to try to get up from where he was sitting. Unable to control his physical reactions, he tried to control his thoughts and _feelings?_ But he couldn’t. It was as if a bonfire was set up in his chest, burning up his insides and turning them into light gray ashes. The blend of emotions was so complex that he could not name them all, not that he was accustomed to do so either. What was it? _Fear? Yes, up to a certain point. Sadness? Not likely, the events are too recent to cause sadness yet. Desperation? Definitely, but the intensity of it had decreased in the last minutes. Anger? Very likely, anger is a natural response to… guilt? Oh, obviously._ Then he decided guilt it was.

 

* * *

 

Again, white was all he saw around him. Doctors walking around in his white robes. A long hall with bright white walls. Coffee served in a white plastic mug. The large white sofa in which he was sitting. The emptiness he felt could also be described as white. It was not a black hole which swallowed all it could, but it was a tiny white spot, which slowly started to enlighten some parts of his heart that he did not even know existed.

 

* * *

 

It had been nearly three months since he had been back. The very first time John saw him, he turned _dead white_. But a few seconds later he turned an alarming shade of _red_. His cheeks were colored in the way they did when he felt extremely angry at something or someone. Sherlock could tell that easily. He hadn’t changed that much, then. In those two goddamned years. In all the time they had not been together. In all the time they had lost. In all the time in which the pain Sherlock caused John had been so sharp he had to use a cane again, for a few months. In all the time in which Sherlock had way too much spare time to think of John, and all the things they had been through together. Not that he would ever mention that. It was a little convention of theirs to leave some things unsaid. And that didn’t change at all.

 

 

* * *

 

This had been their first case together after his return. Why did it take them so long to take one? Because John had to re-adjust his life, _for the hundredth time in his life_. It took him a while, but he eventually moved on. He moved out of the flat, and then he moved again a couple of times. With his army pension and his job at the clinic he was able to afford a decent flat and lead a peaceful lifestyle. But there was something missing.  He had been in many different flats, but they were just flats for him. He could not call them _home,_ as he once did.

It was just after that missing part returned that he was able to go back _home_ again.

 

 

* * *

 

The case involved a network of weapon dealers who worked covered as an accounting firm from Russia. When Lestrade first showed him the file Sherlock did not deem it worth of his time, but after he received a brief text message ( _Welcome back, little brother. MH)_ he agreed to go to the Yard.

 

Sleepless nights, races through dark alleys, a reluctant-to-eat Sherlock and some appointments missing at the clinic were everything they needed to go from _going back to normal_ to _back to normal._ Oh, the good old days were back, or so they thought.

 

* * *

 

It’s not that Sherlock liked Christmas, but he didn’t actually hate it either. He just couldn’t understand why people got so _sentimental_ during that period of the year. It was pathetic. Well, he himself had felt that way while he was away. He missed the coziness of the flat when the little lights were on, the tiny (and badly decorated) Christmas tree that John insisted on putting on the mantelpiece. He even missed the carols. But most of all he missed John. Oh, how much he had wanted to have him near and give him a tight hug. He used to feel that every single day, but it usually got worse during the Christmas season. Not that he would ever admit it. It was _not very convenient_ to do so. Besides, they were together again. _What could go wrong?_

 

 

* * *

 

After a week of thorough investigation, deductions, violin sonatas, takeaways and a few cuppas they discovered the place where the gang kept the weapons. It was an old brick warehouse, located in a desolated area in northern London. At first sight, it seemed abandoned, but there was a weak steam of light visible through a dust-covered window located in the upper part of the warehouse.

The snow had started to fall the night before, and that helped them to get to the warehouse without being heard or seen, for the snow muffled the sound of their steps.

“Text Lestrade Sherlock, this is definitely the one, and I’m bloody freezing here!” John whispered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m not doing anything until I’ve confirmed my suspicions. Seriously John, have you already forgotten my methods? Here, lend me a hand.”

“What for?” said John, a bit puzzled.

“I’m going to take a glimpse through that window”, he answered while trying to find something that could help him get there.

“Why don’t you let me do it?” replied John. “I’m the one with the gun, remember?” he said grinning and touching the pocket of his jacket.

Sherlock did not seem so sure about it but he agreed. There were a few pipes that went from the ground to the roof of the warehouse. How _convenient._ Once he made sure the pipes were safe enough, he helped John to cling to them and then he covered himself in some nearby bushes.

The plan was that John would take a glimpse through the window and if he saw anything compromising he would give Sherlock the OK sign (thumbs up) so that he’d be able to text Lestrade as soon as possible and hopefully, they’d be back in Baker Street in less than an hour. But plans rarely go as expected.

When John reached the window, he cleaned up the glass a bit with his sleeve. Immediately, he gave the hint to Sherlock but as soon as he turned his eyes to the screen of his mobile phone, he heard two shots and a loud cry:

“SHERLOCK!”

And after that, he saw the warehouse blow away.

 

 

* * *

 

White was all that was in his mind when he first realized what had happened. John had seen something compromising, but he had been seen as well. The man who was keeping guard tried to shoot John as soon as he saw him, but John was faster and took out his gun and shot the ammunition that was being kept in the warehouse. That caused the explosion.

He was frozen, he didn’t dare to move. He didn’t know what to expect. He didn’t know what he would see. He didn’t care about the case anymore. The only thing that was in his mind was a word written in bright white letters: _John._

 

 

* * *

 

When he reached for John he felt so weak he thought he would faint. He kneeled next to him, _to his body,_ and turned him around. His chest was covered in blood, as the snow that was beneath him. His face was pale, his eyes were shut, and his breathing was almost undetectable. A tear was streaming down his face, burning his skin on his way.

_No, no, no. This isn’t happening, this isn’t real. No. You cannot leave me. Not now, not today John. No, no no, the ambulance it’s on its way, don’t leave me. You can’t do this to me John, you’re strong. Very strong. You’re the strongest person I know. Please, hold on. For me, for us…_

 

 

* * *

 

The ambulance and the police arrived almost right away. John was sent to the hospital in a rush, and Sherlock was kept behind in order to give Lestrade the information he needed. But he couldn’t focus.  He couldn’t stop feeling guilty for what had just happened and it grew worse each second that passed. He didn’t even know in which state John was. He had lost a lot of blood and his pulse was very low. _Guilt. If he hadn’t come here with me, he would have been fine now._

_Desperation. What should I do now? What should I do then?_

_Anger. Why do these things happen to us, now? Now, that everything was going back to normal.._

_Fear. What if he doesn’t recover? What if he never wakes up? What if I’m the one who has to face a loss this time?_

 

* * *

“The doctors say he will be fine”, said a familiar voice behind him. “Although he missed a considerable amount of blood, he wound was just superficial, it is the concussion that keeps him unconscious and the doctors want to observe him for a few days. You should return to the flat, my dear brother, and rest.”

“I won’t”, said Sherlock sternly. He was looking out the window and all he could see was white. White snow was covering the grass, white curtains were hanging from the other windows.

Mycroft sighed. He expected his brother’s reaction but he was not giving up yet.

“There’s a car waiting for you outside. It will take you to your flat and will take you back here very early tomorrow. I will stay here to deal with the paperwork, as I always do, may I remind you.” said Mycroft. He smirked.

“It is not necessary. I’m not going back.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I can’t keep him safe, Mycroft” replied Sherlock, looking at Mycroft with watery eyes. “I missed two years of my life, of our lives, to keep him safe. And I thought I succeeded. But I did not. I am the problem. I am the one who brings destruction, pain. I cannot prevent him from having a good life, Mycroft. So I will leave again. But this time, it will be forever. As long as he is with me, he will not have a single day of peace and quiet. He had moved on and I made him change his life again. What for? To put him in danger again, to risk his life carelessly? What if something really bad happened, huh? I do not think I am nearly as strong as he is. I do not consider myself able to endure what he did all this time. Because now I know what he felt. I understand him _fully and thoroughly_. He is the best man I know, brother. He deserves the best life he can get. And that does not involve _me_.”

Tears were streaming down his face. He had never felt so vulnerable, so guilty, and so sad. And he had never hated himself more than he did at that time.

“But... do you think John agrees with you? Because I would dare say he does not.” said Mycroft, not wanting to sound _too_ concerned.

“I don’t care if he does or not. I’m leaving, no matter what. One day he will thank me for doing so. Of that I am sure”, replied Sherlock wiping his face with the sleeve of his coat. “Just let me spend the night here, please. One more night. And then I’ll be gone forever.”

“Is is decided, then?”

“Yes. I might need your help on my finding a place where he can _never_ find me again.”

“Please take into account that such thing implies a permanent decision. Are you absolutely sure that you are never coming back, Sherlock?”

“I am, Mycroft”.

“Then consider it settled. Go to my office tomorrow morning, we will discuss the details there”, said Mycroft before turning and heading to the door.

“Thank you, Mycroft. And I assure this is the last time you will have to do something for me.”

Mycroft smiled. “Of that I would not be so sure, my dear little brother”, replied over his shoulder.

 

 

* * *

 

Sherlock was not allowed to be inside John’s room, but he was allowed to see him through the window. He sat in a large white sofa that was situated in front of John’s room. So, that was it. That was his last night in London. With John. He started to think of what Mycroft had told him about what John would think when he realized that Sherlock was gone _again._ He could not explain himself for two reasons:

1)       John was unconscious as the moment, and unless he did not care about being heard or not, it was useless.

2)       He could not face John. He knew John would convince him of staying and that was unacceptable. He would leave the next day, and nothing would prevent him of doing so.

He was lost in this train of thoughts when he was suddenly interrupted:

“Excuse me sir, do you need anything?” asked a pretty young nurse with a soft, pleasant voice.

Sherlock glanced at her with a sharp look and after finding out everything he needed to know _(recently graduated, single, just left his boyfriend, incipient alcoholism, family not in town, probably trying to seduce me, judging by the tone of her voice, her posture and the unnecessary open buttons of her shirt),_ a thought came to his mind, and replied:

“Well, I think I do. Would you be kind enough to help me?” replied with a big, warm and fake smile.

 

 

* * *

 

The girl supplied him a pen and a few sheets of paper, those would do. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to start; he had never done anything of the sort. Of course he had written letters before, but they were not _that kind_ of letter. He had never opened his heart to anyone in any way, and he found this way to be the more comfortable and less risky one. He thought it would be a hard task, but it ended up being surprisingly simple, for the words flowed out of his hands quite easily.

_Dearest John:_

_I’m writing these words while I sit in front of your room at the hospital. The mere sight of your unconscious body with tubes and cables and monitoring machines all around you make my heart twist and my stomach want to take out everything it has inside._

_I am not sure if I will ever be able to go through anything of the sort again, so I am leaving. I will leave tomorrow and you will never hear of me again. I sincerely think I should have never come back, for all I do is endanger your life in more ways that are imaginable. You are the best human being I have ever had the pleasure to meet, John, and I wish you the best. I also hope you understand that you will never get the best of this life as long as I am near you._

_Additionally, I want you to know that now I completely understand how you felt when I left for the first time. Or I may actually not. At the moment I am sure that you will be fully recovered in a few weeks’ time, and though that fact makes me feel somewhat relieved I cannot avoid feeling guilty for what has happened to you, and that is the main reason of my departure, John._

_The emptiness I am feeling right now is something completely new to me. I call it emptiness for practical purposes, though I suspect that what I am feeling is a very complex mix of emotions almost impossible to describe. The most identifiable one is the guilt, because now that I am looking at you so weak and vulnerable I hate myself more than I have ever done. When I saw you lying on the snow tonight I was afraid. Afraid of not being able to talk to you again, afraid that you would not blog about us anymore, that you would not go with me on cases anymore and that I would not be able to make you smile again. That all of the things we used to enjoy together would be gone forever and that it would be my fault._

_It was only when I calmed down that I realized that all the things I felt were nothing compared to what I made you felt, and that I did not deserve your pardon. I do not understand why you forgave me as if what I did was not a big deal, when it actually was and it was even more than I was able to realize at that moment._

_You may have done it because you are a great man. You are the greatest man of all manhood and I feel flattered for having been given the honor of your calling me your friend. But I am afraid I am not as good as you think I am._

_I went away for two years to grant your happiness and that of some others. I succeeded, but not for long. I want you to know that I did some great sacrifices because I wanted to see you happy and, most important, alive. I went away because I could not bear the thought that you could die because of me. I went away because I did not want to prevent the rest of the world from seeing that bright warm smile you have. I wanted them to see and appreciate how good of a man, and blogger and tea-maker, you are. At that moment I was sure you would be able to find someone who would make you very happy, just as I am right now._

_I am definitely going to miss your whole set of ugly jumpers, the way you refrained from punching me when I deserved it, how good you are at buying everything we need, how nice you are to people but most of all to me, and basically everything about you.  But I am willing to go through it knowing that it is because it is the best thing I can do to reattribute at list a bit of all the good things you have done for my life, even if you did not have to._

_I am sure that when you read this silly letter you will be able to find a word or a phrase suitable for my description, because that is what you have always done. When I was at a loss for words you were there with a wide range of them to help me. When I did not want to talk to anyone you just respected my decision and even took care of me, instead of yelling and getting mad at me like most people. You never tried to change me; you respected me and accepted me the way I am, no matter how much of a jerk I could be back then. You have no idea how good that made me feel._

_John, you are not most people. You are one of a kind. You are one in the whole world. There’s no one out there who can match you. You are more intelligent, brave and talented than you think you are. Please remember this._

_However, I would like you to forget me. Take me out of your life as soon as you can. It will be nothing but good for you to get rid of my influence in your life as soon as possible._

_Finally, be happy John. I know you will. You have been through many hardships in your life, and it seems as if every single one of them made you a better person. I cannot guarantee you that you are not going to suffer anymore, but I can tell you I will not be the reason of your pain again. Never._

_Thank you for everything you did for me. Sorry for everything I did to you._

_I do not deserve your pardon or your admiration. I have always wished that there would come a day where I could pay you for all the pain I caused you. That day has come, and my payment will be fulfilled in full, and forever._

_Goodbye John. Do not miss me, for you will be wasting you precious time instead of enjoying it. I will be fine. Or at least as good as I can be when you are not next to me._

_Yours truly,_

 

_Sherlock._

* * *

Arriving at the flat he was welcomed by the ridiculously gigantic white snowflakes John had insisted on hanging from the ceiling. If a couple of months ago someone had told him that he would have to leave the flat again _and forever_ he would have taken him for a lunatic, but life would have proved him wrong.

He took his time packing up his belongings, each one of them had a story behind it, something that would link him to his _home._ He made himself a last cup of tea and sat on his armchair, opposite to that of John. What wouldn’t he give to have him there, sitting next to him, doing nothing, being everything.

Once he finished, he headed to the door, but he stopped halfway. Then he turned around and went upstairs, to John’s room. He knew it would not be locked, for he seldom did it.

He opened the door and the scent there filled his lungs in a pleasant ways. I was John’s scent. One that he would never smell again. That thought made him feel ill and weak. He decided to sit on his bed, he had never done it before. It was soft and fluffy, just as he thought it would be. The white duvet reminded him of how meticulous John was, how warm his hand used to feel on his shoulder when he casually touched him…

And then he began to cry, it was an urge he had repressed since the police had arrived at the crime scene the night before. No, it was something he had _always_ repressed. He didn’t even cry when he was away, since he considered him a waste of time and energy. But at that moment nothing else mattered. He was going to leave, and he was not coming back. That was the last, and only, time he was lying in John’s bed and that was the closest he would be ever be to him again. So he rolled in his bed and without knowing it he sobbed himself to sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

Before leaving the hospital he made a last effort ( _for John_ , he thought) and bought the nurse a coffee. He even had to simulate a chat with her, and eventually he persuaded her to put the letter on John’s bedside table. He tried to sound as casual as possible about the situation but he could not help feeling envious of the girl. She was going to go into John’s room, put the envelope on his table, touch his wrist to check his pulse, accommodate his bed for him, and make him feel good. Something he would never be able to do again. 

 

 

* * *

 

He felt his phone buzzing in his sleep, but somehow his brain managed not to wake up. A while later there was another, and there another one. It was too much to ignore, so he woke up and checked his phone.

The first thing he noticed was what time it was. He should have been at Mycroft’s office three hours ago. He did not think he needed that much sleep.

Then he checked his texts. One was from Mycroft. _My_ _offer to help you expires today at 12:00 pm. MH_ He still had time to get there right on time. The next two texts were from.. _John?_ He could not believe his eyes. He thought he was still a bit dizzy after his mid-morning nap, but after he washed his face he returned to his phone and the only visible word there was _‘John’._

With trembling hands he unlocked it and opened the first text, which said:

_You are right. I always have words to describe what you can’t. And the word you need at the time is ‘love’. Yes, I love you too, you utter bastard. How could you have possibly missed that? PS: It’s good to know you love me too. Very good indeed. JW_

Was it some kind of joke? Had Doctor John Hamish Watson, former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusileers jut told him he _loved_ him? What the hell? Amidst his astonishment he almost forgot about the other text.

_PS 1: Can you not be a silly twat for once in your life? Don’t leave. I cannot call home a place in which you are not with me. I already know how it feels to be dead. I was a living dead while you were away. I do not want to be one again. Stay. I will be happy only if you are next to me. Did I already mention that I love you? I always have. If you happen not to be at home by the time I get out of the hospital, I will find you and make sure you never see the sunlight again, you goddamned genius._

So apparently it was true. He mentioned again, so it had to be true. How could have he missed the signs?

 _Oh, obviously_. Because he was not looking for them. Because he did not know the even existed. Because at that time he had not realized how much he loved John, how much he needed him in his life.

He smiled. The emptiness was gone. Instead, his chest was filled with a mix of joy, relieve and hope. He just wanted to have John there with him, right at that moment.

Since he could not have that, he texted Mycroft instead.

_Mission aborted. My apologies. SH_

The answer came at once.

_What mission? Welcome back. MH_

 

* * *

 

By the time John got out of the hospital, there were just a few days left before Christmas. Thank goodness he decided to decorate the flat early that year, because if he hadn’t Sherlock would have had to be in charge of that and good things _never_ happen when Sherlock is in charge of the flat.

Mrs. Hudson called on him every day, and she assured him that Sherlock was in the flat, that he was fine and that he seemed to be in a better mood that usual. Her puzzlement made him laugh.

When he entered the flat he was glad to see that everything was in order. Apparently Sherlock managed not to burn or blow away anything, and that was a good sign. He started to worry when he did not answer him, but then he found a note pinned to the table with a _knife:_

_We are out of milk and some other stuff. If you happen to arrive before I do, welcome home. I will be back in a few minutes. SH_

So he was doing the groceries now. John smiled. The good old days changed a bit, but they changed for good.

“You’d better be back quickly, Sherlock. We have some things to talk about” murmured John.

“I’m glad I did not keep you waiting, doctor. That would have upset you a lot, wouldn’t it?” replied a low baritone voice behind him.

“Sherlock! How in the world did you manage to get here without being he..”

Sherlock dropped his bags and took his hand.

“I think there are more important things for us to have a nice little chat about, don’t you?” said Sherlock, smiling fondly.

“I do. I totally do. Oh God, Sherlock you fucking know I do” replied John throwing his arms around Sherlock’s neck. “Never leave me again Sherlock, never ever in your life. Don’t even think about it. Would you do that for me?”

“Of course I will John”, said Sherlock embracing him tight. “I will do anything that makes you happy. I plan to do that for the rest of my life. Only that, nothing else.”

And they stayed there. Hugging each other in the middle of the flat for only God knows how long.

 

 

* * *

 

At last, white was all he saw around him on Christmas Eve’s dinner party. The white tablecloth that covered the table, the white foam of the champagne Lestrade had bought as a present (‘ _We all knew this was a matter of time’_ , he had said when they told him that they were together), the matching white shirts he and John were wearing that night, the white ribbon on Molly’s hair, the white snowflakes hanging from the ceiling and the white snow that was falling outside, which made everything look calm, quiet, peaceful and _not hateful at all_. Because how could someone think of _hating_ something when he was feeling so much _love_ at the same time? Sentiments were defects after all, and he was happy of feeling _so very much defective_ at that moment.

 

* * *

 

The End. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! I hope you enjoyed the story. This is my first work ever and I'd love to read your opinions. I want to add that English is not my native language, so I apologize for any mistakes I've made. (PS: If someone is willing to help me with that it'll be much appreciated!)  
> Thanks for reading this! It means a lot to me. :D


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